Derailed

Derailed

This one word just naturally brings to mind the picture of a locomotive, and all its accompanying cars lying haphazardly on its side by the track, and scattered along a steep embankment.

Even as a first grader, I walked the mile or so to school. In those days there was little or no fear of child abduction. We didn’t even lock our doors at night. It was simply a different era.

I suppose I was 11 or 12, and in the process of navigating my way down Pearl, and approaching my home turf of Formosa Avenue. On my right was an ice plant, (the kind of establishment which no longer exists in this country, I suppose) and on my left a lumber mill. To my rear, well, far to my rear was my already ancient elementary school building. To my front, (and hearkening to my first paragraph)

… a train track.

Of course, I walked across this non-descript bit of rail twice a day, on weekdays; in the morning facing east. In the afternoon facing west.

But today was different.

For “right there in front of God and everyone” was a railroad tie lying on top of one of the rails. Of course, I recognized the danger to our friendly neighborhood locomotive which passed this way once or twice a day. And as a result, I bent down to do something about this obvious discrepancy.

Well, that old beam was almost as big as yours truly. But I just managed to lift one end, and move it off the rail, and onto the grassy edge of the street. And of course, at this age I felt as if I had done something admirable. Rather akin to the exploits of my Saturday cartoon hero. Mighty Mouse.

Well, if this was all there was to the story, I suppose I would have long since forgotten the entire episode.

However…

I had just gotten home from school the next day, and was doing something in my room, when I heard a knock on the door, and the subsequent footsteps of my mother.

I figured it had to be one of my neighborhood pals. But the baritone voice I heard reverberating through the walls belied that possibility.

“Hello ma’am, I’m Mr. Swearingen. I represent Seaboard Railroad Corporation. There was a train derailment yesterday; on the track which crosses Pearl Street. Apparently, the locomotive ran over a railroad tie, or log. And I’m canvassing the community to see if anyone can shed a little light on the situation. Do you have any children? If so, I’d like to speak to them.”

One word came to mind, (and it wasn’t a swear word).

“Uh-oh”

And no sooner than that four letter word drifted through my mind, than another single word drifted through the air about me.

… “Royce”

I dutifully responded to my mother’s summons and walked into the living room.

“Royce, this is Mr. Swearingen. He’s investigating a train wreck which happened yesterday afternoon by the ice plant. Do you know anything about it?”

Suddenly, I didn’t give a whit about being the neighborhood hero.

I intuitively, and immediately knew that while I had performed a good deed by removing the heavy beam from the track, any attempt to explain the scenario could only result in implicating the innocent. (Yours truly). I recall clearing my throat, and managed a weak,

“Uh, no ma’am. I don’t know a thing about that.”

And with this, the railroad investigator thanked my mother and me, and took his leave.

Though over a half a century has come and gone since this incident, it only just now occurs to me that whomever originally dropped the railroad tie on the track must have replaced it again; (after I’d emulated Mighty Mouse, and had heroically removed the obstruction).

By now, Mr. Swearingen and his associates have long since gone on to their reward, as have most of the fathers and mothers who lived in those pleasant little project houses which lined Formosa Avenue. And I’m doubtful that event from so long ago took up much more than momentary residence in the minds of my neighborhood pals.

Of course, it was different with me.

I was involved in an action which managed to engrave the scenario into my brain; much like Moses and the stone tablets upon which God inscribed The Ten Commandments.

And throughout those 50 plus years since that old train coasted off the tracks, I’ve wondered whether anyone was injured, (or God forbid) killed that day. But since at the time I neglected to ask, (and really didn’t want to know) it is unlikely, in this life, that I will have an answer to that question.

And other than you, my readers, (and I trust you to maintain my confidence) I suppose only Mighty Mouse and I will ever be the wiser for my heroic deed of so long ago.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9